


take me home, I don't want to be alone.

by fvartoxin



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Holy Musical B@man - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Disabled Character, Gen, I guess I could technically tag all things with Silas as "disabled character", I wrote this back in March, Would like to think I got better at writing Sil over the past half a year, for one thing, he's missing an eye and an ear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21767446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fvartoxin/pseuds/fvartoxin
Summary: A somewhat brief, more introspective piece on the version of Sweet Tooth I played on the Starkid Speaks Discord server. I wonder if AO3 will mess up the word count, this was exactly 1700.
Kudos: 2





	take me home, I don't want to be alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I recall I initially finished this at like 4, 5 AM [Mother got upset with me for choosing to focus on other homework exercises that day]. This was written for a class. And then I never turned it in because my lovely Creative Writing teacher said that our filling out the sample prompts were optional exercises.

The clock which was securely positioned on the opposite wall winked in his direction just then, and all he could manage to think regarding the matter was that clocks were decidedly _not_ supposed to have the ability to do so.

What did Clock King even do again? Sure, he was long dead now, but maybe there was still some lasting influence of his affecting the city in however minor a matter. Or…something. Gotham City’s most _saccharine_ criminal would be the first to admit that he hadn’t known all that much about Clock King, despite his general penchant for keeping track of the members of the Gallery which he’d taken over after the all-too-convenient demise of the Joker. At the bare minimum, he knew aliases. Real names, in most cases – at least, first names and not last. Full names were something more intimate, and a dangerous thing to have floating around in the underground. He’d been on an entire-name basis with the main threats (coupled with some outliers like Harvey, Waylon, and Jervis), the only people the Bat had faced who even stood a remote chance of doing lasting damage to him. Like hell someone such as Otis or _whatever Kite Man’s name even was_ could carry out a scheme. The pink and blue-clad figure slumped like a rag doll against the stiff headboard of his own bed, monocular vision focused with surprising intensity on that clock in the vast expanse of darkness which sprawled out before him. Clocks should not blink, especially not at 12:13 at night. It was far too early for that brand of nonsense.

Well – it wasn’t so much of a blink or even a wink as it was more so “the entire thing just flashed out of existence for a split second”. He really should have been concerned, he surmised. But, who cared for concern when it was late at night, you were engrossed in thoughts of what once was, _and_ you were probably high on painkillers to boot? Or, definitely high. Clocks shouldn’t abruptly leave their current plane of reality, for however long or short a time.

Forget about the clock! There were more pressing matters. Like Karaoke Night with the boys. Jonathan had never so much participated than he had usually stood on the sidelines and watched with quiet (if weary) interest, but still the occasional look of amusement on his then-boyfriend’s face had been worth it to one Silas Torrance. _That_ was something to treasure, to metaphorically lock away deep down inside himself so that the memory couldn’t be tarnished by silly things such as overpowering emotion or the passage of time. Perhaps that could be patched up someday; he longed for some sense of stability again, craved it like a dehydrated man stranded in a desert thirsted for water. But that wouldn’t be happening soon, more than likely. Whether it be due to cowardice or anything else. He’d ruined enough lately, tearing apart a love that had spanned years in the form of a few simple words to Emily. She’d hurled a vase at his head, he recalled, and the accompanying ice pick to the heart at the thought would have made him fall to his knees had he been standing. She would recover, in time. She’d heal, in time. Right now, though, she was silent as the grave when it came to matters of what had been up until a few short weeks ago – and he didn’t blame her. He couldn’t even if he mustered the energy to _want_ to, anyway. He’d apologized, though in the end it was up to her to accept. They had easy chemistry, and he’d went and casted that away. No room for anything but regret now, though.

Could “tired” be considered an emotion that humans experienced, at this point? He’d always believed that it was more of a state of being; if impermanent in general. Lately, exhaustion had been pulling at his bones nearly 24/7, lightened only by the occasional snippet of good conversation that he’d managed to get himself into. Still, the difference in energy was minuscule, and he’d taken to sleeping for much of the day and night. It was better than lazing around staring at walls, certainly. Given that any present threats in Gotham were far from him, he supposed that he could afford to take the time off. Embezzlement and bank robbing were only a real _Fun Dip_ the first couple of times. Apart from half-heartedly haggling with eBay sellers over old, out-of-production candies to add to his inventory, there wasn’t much he desired to do with the money he sat upon. Trips to different countries were less enjoyable when you were alone. Lucius was waiting for him in Europe, undoubtedly, but clearly the senior Malfoy was a far busier man than Sweet Tooth. Silas had yet to figure out what he was doing on that end of things, other than somewhat pathetically draping himself over someone new _again_ like a particularly annoying feline…or Catwoman, although in a way the comparison was practically one and the same. In a way, the men he’d been eyeing had made an appearance at the wrong time (or a re-appearance in the case of one Dr. Crane). Though that wasn’t fair to either of them. Letting his head fall to his hands, he emitted a windowpane-rattling sigh. Curse whatever sentimentality he had, and curse whatever remained of his libido. Tonight, he was far too fatigued to properly confront his own demons in combat. Someday he would have to, but that could and _would_ have to wait.

The silence of the room was almost a tangible thing. 

His thoughts were almost deafening, in twisted contrast.

Strange to ponder whose company he’d missed as the years had passed. Harvey, despite being a general annoyance to anyone with a brain (apart from Jervis, although to be fair, literally no one wanted to hang around Jervis for longer than they absolutely had to), had been a welcome pseudo-sight when he’d popped up in that chat room. Not as though he’d admit that, of course. Had to retain _some_ pride, despite his proverbial fall from grace and literal near-death at the hands of Batman and _that_ vat of boiling hot chocolate. Of course, that all had been his own fault, given that he’d casually tried to murder the hero’s young ward. Still, he felt no guilt over the action. The boy – Robin — had been an irritance, a mosquito buzzing around one’s head or a thorn in the side. In place of any remorse, there was a simple, yawning void filling whatever space it could. With any other person, that would have been a problem. He wasn’t a fool enough to dismiss the issue entirely. There was something strange going on there, mentally. But he’d gone past the point of caring about moral matters or what lurked in the recesses of his brain, and opted to not dwell on such issues if he didn’t absolutely have to. Attempted child murder was a headache inducer, plain and simple.

The clock on the wall had warped into something distinctly alien, a steadily undulating mass of porcupine-quill tick marks and far too many pointed hands. The numbers had vanished off the item’s face, if only because of _course_ they had. Would it be more or less concerning if they’d remained? What orientation would they have been in, provided they were still there? Leave it to a mathematician to be concerned about the theoretical accuracy of…well, literally any of that. A soft _heh_ dispelled the hush in the room at the thought, but the moment was disappointingly fleeting, and once again quiet blanketed the space like thick fog. He fumbled in the darkness for several seconds, then snatched up his cane from where it lay propped against the bedframe; dragging it into the sheets with him much as a python would constrict a rat. Tonight, it was necessary to have it be a little closer.

It wasn’t as if he _hadn’t_ fallen asleep in his trademark suit before (everything else, including what Arachne had graciously made for him, had been shoved into drawers or the closet earlier), so he paid clothing little mind as he rolled onto one side. Much like the red-and-white-striped cane that was never more than a few feet away from him nowadays, the outfit was a great comfort to have around. Surely it was a bizarre thing to be sentimental over, especially considering that this wasn’t even the original version of it. _That_ had been far too ruined by molten chocolate to salvage much from but scraps. Those, he kept tucked away in a locked cabinet along with a few other personal effects, the odd knobby bit of Styrofoam, and the dosage of toxin he’d been gifted so long ago. Sleep would not come quickly, not this night. Perhaps not for a while, even. Who was to say? Who was to know? In some capacity, it had been too long since he’d experienced something remotely resembling peaceful rest. Lately he’d been rising from bed a shaking mess. _How fun_! He bore that as only he could, which was to say: he was an alcoholic and wasn’t one to have great coping mechanisms. You figure it out, friend reader. Too rarely, he dreamt. Most likely, the same would happen that night. Still, it wouldn’t stop the same series of images from playing on loop in his head every other time he shut his eye or even had a moment to think.

He tore his heavily-lidded gaze from the clock, preferring to cast it aimlessly around the room instead. Everything was in its place as usual; though, the cane was securely in his arms for the time being. Nothing to worry about there. That was perfectly fine, in opposition to the mental hellscape he’d unintentionally created. Maybe that’d right itself in time. A peculiar itching sensation centered itself in the socket which housed his remaining eye, and he blinked a couple times in an effort to rid himself of the feeling. At some point, he must have yawned. 

He’d been right. When sleep had bothered to take him, his rest had been dreamless.


End file.
